


Hold Back Tomorrow

by ChillsofFire



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, off screen character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:01:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23902762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChillsofFire/pseuds/ChillsofFire
Summary: What was supposed to be an easy fight ends in disaster, and Starscream's world is shattered.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 35





	Hold Back Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Anonymous, who requested angsty Starscream

“You’re an idiot,” Starscream glares down to his right, struggling to keep his voice hard and his gaze steady. “How many times did we tell you? How many times…” He has to stop, before the words become choked and mangled. He swallows. “How many times did we tell you that you were going to get hurt? And you,” Starscream turns to his left, voice still heated even as it begins to thicken, “always enabling him, always running to his rescue.”

It wasn’t fair of him to toss the blame around; he’d enabled too, always hot on the trail of trouble and mayhem, cursing and complaining but rushing to the defense none the less. He’d hoped trying to pin the blame on someone else would make him feel better. But it only left him feeling worse.

“He’s never going to learn. I told you, I told both of you, so many times, and now…” Starscream stops again, and this time he gives in to the desire to squeeze his optics shut, throat uncomfortably warm and tight as it constricts to the point of pain. “Now…” His second attempt at speaking is barely audible, and Starscream swallows, hard, to try to clear his voice box. It works, briefly, and he forces his optics open so he can properly address his audience.

“Now look at you,” his voice quivers, and he hates it, but he can’t help it. “Look at what happened…”

He receives no answer. He knew he wouldn’t, and still the silence stings.

Starscream forces back the wounded sound that threatens to escape and steps up between the two medberths, one servo reaching out to grasp at each of the occupants. The plating he touches is cold.

Thundercracker and Skywarp haven’t been cleaned yet; the medics are still busy tending to the wounded, and any deceased that have come in from the latest battle have been pushed to an empty room, out of sight of those currently fighting for their own lives. As of now, these are the only two casualties, their blue and purple plating smudged with soot and dust, streaked with their own dried energon. And between them Starscream stands, unharmed save for one scorched wing and a gash along his leg.

It’s not fair.

“You fragging idiot…” Starscream squeezes at the unresponsive servos he holds. It was just that morning, though it feels like an entire life time ago now, that they had squeezed back, warm and sure in his grip, fields alight and buzzing against his. He was never going to feel that again.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

“In and out, Star! ‘Couple fly overs, a few explosives, we’ll clear the area and be back in a few hours!” Skywarp had described their goal perfectly just before they left, brimming with confidence as usual, easily brushing off Thundercracker’s insistence that they be careful, and laughing when Starscream had told him to take it seriously.

Primus, it isn’t fair!

Starscream feels himself choke again, and on reflex he reaches for bonds that no longer exist, seeking comfort from people who can no longer provide it. They’re gone, and he’s here, alone.

His spark spasms with a pain he’s never felt before, a pain he’d always feared. It’s still raw, still flayed open by the jagged wounds left behind when the bonds between him and his Trine had broken, and trying to reach for them only made it worse.

_You_ _’re lucky to be alive._

The medic’s words echo in his head, and Starscream pushes them aside as quickly as he can. He doesn’t feel lucky. He doesn’t even feel alive. He feels empty, and alone, and lost.

The room is quiet, the silence so intense that it’s deafening, the weight of it so heavy he feels he could be crushed beneath it. This isn’t right. This isn’t normal. He shouldn’t be standing in this room, he should be griping about the volume of Skywarp’s laughter, pretending to ignore the over-the-top way he recounts the action of the battlefield. Starscream should be sitting at his desk with Thundercracker over his shoulder, writing their reports while Skywarp fixes them drinks that will inevitably be way too strong, using resources that they all know they should be saving, and he and Thundercracker should be sharing a look that silently reminds them of that fact. But they’ll bring it up tomorrow, because hey, it’s too late to stop him now, right? There’s always tomorrow, right?

Apparently not. Not anymore.

It’s not _fair!_ None of this was fair!

How had he survived what his Trinemates couldn’t? How had he gotten out of a fight that had cost them their lives with nothing more than a scratch and a burn!? Why is he being punished like this? Why is he being forced to outlive them, to bare their loss alone?

Starscream wants to sob. He wants to rage. He wants to tear apart the base and track down the Autobots responsible for this. He wants to curl up into a ball and never move again. He wants to be somewhere far away from all of this, from the war and the silence and the bodies of his friends; but he can’t bring himself to let go of them.

He hates it. Hates the flurry of emotions that he can’t sort through. He hates how cold Thundercracker and Skywarp are, he hates this room they’ve been shoved into. He hates the Autobots. He hates the medics who hadn’t gotten to them fast enough. He hates Megatron for starting this war. He hates Skywarp for charging headfirst into a fight they hadn’t assessed yet, and he hates Thundercracker for trying to stop him.

Most of all, Starscream hates himself. Hates himself for hating them. For not saving them. For surviving.

“How do you expect me to do this alone?” Starscream wants to sound angry. Pretending to be arguing with them would make it easier to pretend that this wasn’t real. But he doesn’t sound angry, he sounds scared. And he hates himself for that too.

“Starscream,” he recognizes the voice as belonging to one of the medics, but he can’t get himself to focus enough to figure out which medic it is. They sound sympathetic, something that is decidedly un-Decepticon like, and Starscream can’t decide if he’s grateful or if he hates that too. “You’re shaking where you stand. You need to go to your habsuite. Try to get some rest.”

Starscream doesn’t respond. He knows that they’re right. There’s nothing more he can do here. But his servos don’t want to cooperate, and he can’t quite convince himself to step away.

“I’ll clean them up. You can come by tomorrow and tell me what they wanted done with their bodies.”

Starscream already knows what they wanted done. But he doesn’t trust himself to say it out loud right now.

There’s another stretch of silence. The medic behind him shifts, and it’s not clear whether it’s out of more sympathy or respect for Starscream’s position that they don’t attempt to order him to leave. Starscream squeezes his optics shut tightly again, forces himself to pull it together. It’s physically painful for him to force his servos to open; letting go of their servos feels like he’s letting go of a lifeline, and as soon as his own servos are free Starscream can feel himself start to spiral. He turns away from their bodies, barely hears the medic softly tell him that they’ll see him tomorrow as he walks past. There’s static in his audials and his vision is starting to swim, and Starscream knows that he doesn’t have long before he completely loses himself.

He barely makes it to his habsuite. The door locks behind him as soon as he steps inside, and everything comes to a jarring halt.

The room is wrong.

The berth is still neatly made; Starscream dislikes a rumpled berth but Thundercracker hates…hated, it, and always left it looking pristine. There are three empty cubes on the table in their in-suite sitting area, left from this morning. The puzzle Skywarp had been working on is still on Starscream’s desk. The room looks like it did on any other day. But it’s quiet. Just like the room Starscream had just left.

Only this silence feels worse, because this room is never silent.

There’s no laughter, no drinks, no petty arguments over someone hogging the hot cleanser in the washracks. It’s just Starscream.

_Alone._

The word felt alien. For years, Starscream had felt Thundercracker and Skywarp with him, their sparks beating in time with his, the bond bright between them. They were always there. A constant presence.

Now they’re gone. And Starscream’s spark feels so mangled that he almost expects it to give out. But it doesn’t. Of course it doesn’t.

Starscream doesn’t make it to the berth. He slides down until he’s sitting on the floor with his back against the door, and he stares into the room, trying not to focus on anything. His throat feels tight again. His optics burn.

Tomorrow won’t see Thundercracker and Starscream in this room, finally putting their foot down, as much as they won’t want to, and stopping Skywarp from using their rapidly shrinking supply of copper or mercury, or whatever other flavorings he gets his servos on. Tomorrow will see Starscream, both in his official position as Decepticon Second in Command and as a grieving loved one, watching as Thundercracker and Skywarp are smelted down into memorial Decepticon insignias, per their written and official final wishes. Tomorrow will force Starscream to wear a stoic mask as he puts on a show for Megatron and the rest of the army; he is the SIC, after all, and he cannot wallow in his grief. Tomorrow will be taken from him.

But tonight belongs to Starscream.

He closes his optics, clenches his fists so tightly that they hurt, and he weeps.

Alone.


End file.
